


Self-Defense

by henghost



Series: Amy Obsession [3]
Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 06:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19762459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henghost/pseuds/henghost
Summary: Amy tells her side of the story. (Spoilers for all of Ward).





	Self-Defense

**Author's Note:**

> This is just my way of trying to wrap my head around the moral quandary currently going on in Ward.

Listen, I know it’s going to be impossible to convince you I’m anything less than an irredeemable monster, which is probably fair, but all I ask is that you listen to what I say and derive your own conclusions. Hear me out. 

I still think about it sometimes. All the time, really. Also,“Think” is probably the wrong word, actually. It’s more like flashes of it pop up in my head like I’m in a haunted house or something and scare the shit out of me. Usually at the worst times possible. Usually when I’m elbow-deep in some poor corner-world villager. And then everything just gets worse.

Often it’s in dreams. The other night I had one that was so realistic and vivid. It wasn’t in first-person, either. I was outside myself, and I could see her and me in that run-down tenement, and it was my own face that was the worst part. I was gaunt and drawn out, and tears running down my face, making my freckles all blurry, and my hands are just absolutely drenched in something. Not blood, but something organic, for sure. 

Sometimes I lie in the dark and try and recall it in as much detail as I can. I think some people have the idea that when you’ve kind of lost it, gone off the deep-end, that you go numb, or you black out— that’s not true. I can remember it all. The lurid intricacies of it, the warmth of her flesh, the little whimpers of the dogs as I sapped the life from them, the desperate squeaks of the rats. 

It started off so innocently, as hard as that might be to believe. It was cold in that building, the sun had gone down, and I was so alone and afraid, and I figured, “What the hell,” and so I made her primary directive to hug me. Made it so that was the only thing she could think of. Her newly healed flesh was so soft and warm, like a pillow that smelled like home. And I remember I was happy, really happy, for maybe the first time in my life, even though the world was crumbling all around me. 

And listen, I promise I’m not trying to justify what I did. I get that it was wrong, even before all the really irreversible awful stuff happened. Believe me, I understand. But on the other hand, you just can’t have any idea what it was like. You don’t really have the right to judge me, frankly. Very few people do. Maybe only her. 

Her new star aesthetic is totally appropriate, if you ask me. Because that’s what it was like in that ruin of a building. Her bright gold hair was like my own personal sun. Bright and all-consuming, and, well, hot. Can you really blame me for wanting more of it? I made it longer and wrapped myself in it like a long silky blanket, and she was happy to do it for me. She loved me, and her love was like a golden ray of warmth shining down from the black sky. 

Like I said, it started out fairly innocent. Wrong, definitely, but pretty innocent, all things considered. But it started to get dark after a couple of hours of lying around together. Because she was wrapped around me, and I could feel the curves of her body pressed against me, and we were so close, and she was so kind and loving, and it was all I’d ever wanted, and look, I was seventeen, okay, and a virgin, and it’d been all I could think about for years, ever since I really could think about things like that, and probably even before that in a more abstract way, and I understand this sounds like I’m making excuses, but I swear to god I’m not, but she was just so pretty and literally in my arms. I’m rambling. But how could I be logical or organized about something like this?

So, yes, I made her want me. Sexually. And I knew it was wrong, but sometimes you just can’t stop yourself, especially when things have already gone as far as they had. And I know it’s totally grotesque to say this, but it really felt incredible. I know I’m a monster for saying it, but it’s the truth. 

She was coy and embarrassed about it all like I’d always fantasized she would be. “Um, Amy, I know we’re basically related and everything, but the truth is I’ve always wanted you. Wanted to, you know, be with you. Physically.” And for a brief moment I was able to forget that it was me who’d made her think that. It was the best thing to ever happen to me. Just what I needed after all the nightmares that’d led up to that moment. 

So she straddled me like in all my fantasies and kissed me and slowly moved her hand between my legs and up inside me. I made her fingers longer with my power. I’m really surprised people didn’t find us earlier with how loud I was. It went on like that for a long while. Hours, days— it’s kind of a blur. 

Then at some point I realized my mistake, the weight of it falling on my head like a brick, and I tried to fix it. And— well, you know the rest. 

When I lay it all out like that, I’m paralyzed— literally clinically paralyzed— by the regret. I’m more disgusted with myself than anyone else ever could be, including her. Anything you could say about me, trust me, I’ve already said it to myself more times than you could count. I’m the worst of the worst, I understand. I raped my own sister, and that’s not even the worst thing I did. I recognize the enormity of that.

But the heart wants what it wants. And I want Victoria. Believe me, I know how evil that is. But I can’t shake my desire for her. When I see someone who even bares the slightest resemblance to her, I literally have to run away and fuck myself to get rid of the thoughts and the urges that cling to me like ticks.

I even— and listen, this can’t leave this room— but I even bought one of the puppets here on Shin and morphed it into a Victoria clone and reenacted that scene from Brockton Bay. Which is so indescribably disgusting, I know. But no one got hurt, I swear. I even wiped its brain and gave it— her? — intelligence and a home and money, so technically the whole ordeal was a net-positive for this world. 

I know you think I don’t hate myself. I know you think I see myself as a completely blameless victim of circumstance. But I promise that’s not the case. I fucking loathe myself. But what am I supposed to do? I can’t just never see her again, that would be the worst torture imaginable. Grey Boy would be like: “Yeah, that’s too harsh of a punishment.”

Because I need her. She defines me. I don’t mean that what I did to her defines me (although certainly my life up to this point has been centered around that event). No, I mean that Victoria Dallon, Glory Girl, Antares, my sister defines me. I am not  _ me  _ without her. I can feel it. When I was away from her in the Birdcage for so long, it’s like it was eating away at me, at my very identity. I need her, and there’s no way around it, so we have to get to a point where she can at least be in the same room as me. It’s not like I’m angry at her for hating me— that’s the most understandable thing in the world— it’s just that we need to  _ talk.  _ We can become sisters again, I know we can. And really I do regret touching her. But how else am I supposed to get her to stay still and listen for once?

If I can’t figure it out soon, something bad is going to happen. I’m not entirely sure what, but it’s going to be bad, I can feel it. A repeat performance? No, I’d kill myself before I let that happen again. A plague? That seems more likely. My finger will slip and all the bitterness and anger and regret and guilt will turn a tiny little microbe into something world-ending. 

Maybe I can keep making more clones. Maybe that’ll be enough to stay my hand, but I can’t be positive…

It’s fine, don’t worry about it. She’ll come around eventually. She’ll get better, and I’ll get better, and if the world doesn’t end again then we can be sisters. Glory Girl and Panacea, defeating villainy together. 

Of course, you’re probably saying that I’m the villain. And that’s probably true. But if it comes to that, I would give anything to be defeated by her, so long as I can feel her touch one last time.

I have this elaborate fantasy about Victoria bursting through the wall of my room, intent on killing me, once and for all. And her aura is out, and I’m scared out of my mind, sweat pouring down my face like I’ve run a hundred miles— but in the end she can’t do it. She gets close to me, ready to punch me in the head and end my suffering, but she can’t bring herself to murder me, murder her sister, there’s just too much between us. And she starts crying and cursing herself for not being able to go through with it. And she lets me get close to her and brush her tears away. And I don’t use my power, and she lets her aura down. We’re just there, supporting each other. Sisters. (Sometimes more happens in this fantasy, but it’s not important.)

And really that’s all I want. I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to hurt anyone, no matter what anyone says. I have a soul, I have a heart, I have feelings, I have remorse. All I am, all I’ve ever wanted to be, is a healer. 


End file.
